Going  Home Day, Wednesday

When I was growing up and my family would go on vacation, on the last day of said vacation, my mother would almost always say, “Oh, I’m so glad to be going home” or “it’s so good to be home.”

I did not then, nor do I now, understand this sentiment.  At least not when the vacation is a great vacation, filled with fun and fellowship or rest and relaxation.

I hate coming home from a good vacation.

The hangover.  The letdown.  The withdrawals.  The DTs.  The fun flu.  Call it what you will–I almost always get it.  I always know it’s coming, and I try to prevent it–with busyness, revisitation of excellent memories via photos, music, talking with the people I’ve had to take leave of–and those things help…but the melancholy comes in waves, ebbs and flows.

This is neither good nor bad.  It just is what it is.

Last night, I was glad Sparrow and Chris were still at the ranch.  When the letdown syndrome threatens, human contact is a very good thing–especially when the humans are as fun and kind as these two are.

This morning, I was busy with cleanup of the guest house.  It was a misty morning (Southern Californians would call it rainy), and the cool and wet were a welcome change.

 

  

 

 

When I went to the main house for breakfast, the wild turkeys had come for their morning visit and graze.  The babies were too small to be seen above the grass.

Do you see them (the grownup turkeys)?

  

How about now?

After cleaning up breakfast and coffee and doing a final check of FB and emails for several hours (no coverage on the road for a little while), I fired up the filthy auto (my Basque Red Honda looks like a Basque Beige Honda–glorious hazards of a dirt road) and headed down the long driveway.  I received a nice sendoff, one I consider a gift.

Singer Sheryl Crow has an old song, titled “Every Day is a Winding Road”:

Every day is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine

 

Today’s winding roads included Flynn Creek Road and Highway 128.  And the signposts were the small (or great) beauties, the unexpected gifts of the road, the gracious (and needed) conversations, the poignant music, the audio book that drenched me in slow and deep characterization.

The velvet yellow hills, punctuated with oak trees and umbrellaed with a slowly clearing sky, compelled me today.  Instead of barreling on through, I stopped to appreciate the compelling gifts.

 

 I’ll keep working on getting closer to feeling fine.